Of Friends and Brains and Graves
by otahotian
Summary: And then I met Sherlock and he gave me new battlefield and I was soldier once again, serving my Queen who just happened to be a morbid, sociopathic genius. And then he died and it was Afghanistan all over again.
1. Victorious

**So I (just like many others) fell for the _Internet Phenomenon _which is BBC Sherlock :)**

**Warni****ngs:**

**They both are pretty OutOfCharacter and I didn't enjoy the idea of a broken John, so he has alternative solution for his danger addiction. **

**OutCharacters are present in the way of John's war comrades and he actually _likes_ them and they play important role in the story.**

**Place: London and Afghanistan and wherever else they would need to**

**Time: over two years after the fall**

**Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Anthea and others. OC soldiers - beware.**

**(Their) Mood: Confused, Cocky, Careful**

* * *

**John; 103 days after**

Well yeah, it was a mess. Honestly. I was sent away from my life because of my injuries and it almost killed me. You can't just tell soldier to stop soldier-ing. And so I spent two months concentrating on being a wreck. Of course I didn't realize, but – I had a psychosomatic limp, didn't even bother to talk to anyone except for my psychologist, I woke up every morning just because that's what they taught me and I never really stopped being a soldier. That should have been a clue enough for me.

And than, after two months of wondering along the lines of 'to live or not to live', I met Sherlock. Bless Mike Stemford, because the mad detective gave me new battlefield, where he was the only one on his side and everyone else was an enemy. For reasons I suspect even he doesn't know, he made me his only comrade and I lived again.

I was a soldier again, in the service of the Queen, just this time my Queen was pretty young and morbid sociopath. *****

And then he died and it was Afghanistan all over again.

For three months and something it was the same again and it wasn't any less painful, even though I already knew the sensation.

I was forced to leave Afghanistan because of my injuries and found Sherlock to give me piece. And then I was forced to leave London because of his death and I hoped war will help me just as he did before and it did.

So I signed a contract for five years, told Mycroft to piss off, promised to visit Mrs Hudson whenever I can and left by the first plane I could find, taking only the necessary minimum, my gun and Sherlock's pink mobile phone. Just for the fun of it.

When the plane touched down I was pleasantly nervous and almost _happy_. Alive again. The steward gave me a kind smile. She reserved those smiles to soldiers, because she thought they were unhappy and scared and that she could _help_ them or safe them or _deliver_ them.

Such a naïve person that one.

I looked her up once, twice, realizing that if I looked hard enough, I could see whatever that was Sherlock would see. Short nails – she had the urge to bite them, heavy make-up on some parts of her face – trying to hide bruises, sleeves rolled down even though the heat was almost unbearable. Domestic violence, I wrote in my mind over her head. Her husband or boyfriend is an ex-soldier, by the way she was interacting.

I had to shake my head to stop. I didn't want to know her story. Hell – I didn't even want to know my _own_ story.

And so I exited the plane with other passengers and let some youngster drive me to the dormitory and it's only few more minutes until I get to see just how much had changed. To see who left or who is broken.

I was curious. I was alive, once more.

**Sherlock; 712 days after**

It's been long since I slept, I realize. I can't even remember doing it, the last time just – _happened_. I think I was in the middle of talking to my precious informant on my – _John's_, actually – phone when I just fell asleep.

But the truth is, I don't really want to sleep. I don't want to loose time, not for something _this_ boring. And I am in a good mood.

I shouldn't be, considering my only worthy opponent is gone, never to play me again. Yes, Jim Moriarty is dead. I didn't kill him and I don't know who fif and frankly, I have no interest in trying to find out. South America is _his_ playground, not mine.

That's what's curious. He _knew_ it here. But he still went down.

I sigh and collapse onto a wooden chair which is uncomfortable and how can I _think_ when my whole body hurts and I don't even have a _cigarette_ to calm myself down?

However, I still feel rather.. _giddy_. Even though it's frankly embarrassing to admit that a _grown up _man and consulting detective of my intellect fells _giddy_. I search the feeling to better understand why and of course it's because I don't have to worry about my _friends _anymore_._ About my 'heart being burned out'.

And now I can even return to London, tell Mycroft, dearest brother of mine, everything I know and let him deal with the rest. He would, because he is stupid.

Well not really, but he still lets sentiment cloud his judgment when it comes to me. I smirk smugly and absently play with my phone. _John's phone_, I correct myself. I have stolen it from him when he slept. He can use mine, if he wants to. And if he finds it.

Or I can return him his own when I get back. The thought makes me stand up with surprising energy, considering my previous activities of running around the city and around after _Dear Jim_.

'He's such a dick', John would've said and forced me to eat something and sleep. Or maybe not, I can't really deduce my friend when he's not here and it's been over two years since I saw him. Even longer since I last talked to him and that conversation wasn't really satisfying either. It's difficult to have sophisticated conversation while standing on the roof and preparing to jump.

My fingers run over the keyboard just as quick as ever and my smile grows.

The first flight I can catch leaves in two hours, I will see if I can somehow manage to get aboard.

And I will be coming home.

Later, when I sit by the window on the plane, I wonder how would they all take it when I come back. Will they be happy? (Mrs. Hudson) Relieved? (Lestrade) Disappointed? (Anderson, Donovan) I couldn't imagine how would _John_ take it and that was worst.

Probably punch me for leaving and shout at me for not telling him. But I couldn't have taken him with me, it would be too dangerous for both of us. And then?

I smile, looking down at the blue infinities of see, and hope that I will be able to _return_.

Since when did I get so poetic, anyway?

**John; 103 days after**

The first thing I notice when I leave the car, is that it's _warm_ here. I got used to the weather of London so this is a nice change.

Before I could get any other observation however, or even look up, I get _tackled_ by a blur of energy, which is screaming profanities and probably trying to hug me and punch me at the same time.

I push the person – because surprisingly it is a human being – and look up.

"_Psycho_!" I exclaim and blink up at the bouncing colleague of mine. I look him up and down to see if he changed and realize that no, he didn't. His hair is the usual unruly mop of _something_ in the colour of startling red, here and there darkened by specks of mud and-

"Did you try to colour you hair _green_?" I ask him feeling _very_ surreal. He laughs.

"As serious as ever, are you, _Schizo_." I have almost forgotten that they insisted on calling me Schizophrenic. Honestly, I can't help it I am soldier _and _doctor at the same time.

"Not at all." I smirk at him, feeling at home. Partly. I let Psycho help me onto my feet, noticing he got a bit taller, so I have to look up at him. By the smirk he sends me he noticed that as well.

"Maan, did you shrink or what?" he laughs and I shove my elbow into his ribs. I note that he is – fortunately – not so skinny anymore. It's good that he gained some muscles along the way.

"So who's housing with me?" I ask him curiously and seize my bag. He leads the way to exactly the same building I lived in before I left and even the paths are the same dusty _something_, marked only by stones on both sides and some signs to help the drivers find their way. I don't need them, I realize. I would be able to find my way around without help.

Let's just hope I didn't forget anything of larger importance.

"Of those you know? Me, Eyes and Hound." I shudder at the nickname, because the first thing I remember is not the kind face of our friend and comrade, but the horrendous _something_ I saw under the effects of hallucinogens. The project H.O.U.N.D. is not something easily forgotten, even though I tried.

"And the others?" I ask noticing that he didn't name at least ten brothers in arms I left here.

"Away, all of them. Well, Blond's dead, caught something from the water, no way to help him." The man – even though he was more like _boy_ – admitted with a defeated sigh and I understood – they didn't have a doctor to take care of it. At least none good enough. It pained me to think that while I was playing heroes with Sherlock, one hero was dying and I could have prevented it.

"We will be forming a team, us four, by the way." Psycho grins that delighted smile of his and it makes me feel lighter and slightly on the edge. He was unpredictable. He could give you this grin one moment and the second take out his gun and shoot you. Without even bothering to change his facial expression. It was dangerous, it was _very_ dangerous and it was good.

"Glad to be home." I mutter without even noticing I said it out loud.

"I thought you liked it as a civy." Psycho smirks. "What happened? Your lover broke it up?" he teased and bumped his hips into mine and I laughed.

"Yea.. chose Lady Death over me, did he." I find myself joking about it for the first time since he jumped and it _helps_. Helps so much I feel like laughing and giggling and crying at the same time.

I do neither, because Psycho gently pushes me trough the door and I suddenly find myself twirled around in the arms of Hound, our resident Snuggler.

And I think at some point I may have cried or laughed or spilled my heart, because I find myself sleeping next to Psycho who is protectively curled around me and I can hear Eyes snoring.

I know I am perfectly safe for the first time since Sherlock died.

However, I can't help but feel that something is missing, something is wrong and will be wrong forever, because even though I don't consider myself gay and I have never looked at him _that_ way, I know that I in some way loved Sherlock and needed him in my life.

**Sherlock; 6 days after**

I silently breath out, breath in, breath out and make another step, the floor makes some noise and I have to stop again to breath in, breath out, breath in.

It takes some time, but I _know_ it here, so I manage to make my way towards the man sleeping on the couch. He had been drinking, I notice with a sinking feeling. John never drinks. I sigh, realizing this day was the day of my funeral and they all had probably gone to the pub to drink.

'To drown the sorrow', I remember. However why would anyone feel the need to drink himself into oblivion just because _I_ died was beyond me. Well, John was bound to be a bit sad, we were flatmates, after all, but it will pass. The only thing to make it worse would be, if John thought he could have stopped me, I think and look the man up and down, trying to deduce how much is that a possibility. He was the one I called, after all.

I shrug. Nothing to do about it, now. I didn't have a choice, I would just explain if I get back one day. When _Moriarty_ is dead.

I duck in front of John, my face just inches from his, trying to will the wrinkles on his face to disappear, because he looks old and John should not be allowed to be old when all he does is take care of everyone around, _but_ himself.

His phone is in his hands and I can see he added Lestrades name and number, but forgot to save it so I take the device from him and delete the number, because why would he need to have _Lestrade_'s number anyway?

I notice that I pocketed his phone only when I am already three streets away and not really willing to go back.

And why not? I think to myself. Why shouldn't I have his phone? He would think he lost it, anyway and buy a new one. Or Mycroft can buy him new one – I roll my eyes at the thought of my _brother_ – because he will be the first one to talk to John in the morning.

Sounds like a plan, I mutter out loud to my own surprise and with the thought of having to buy some skull to talk to I disappear into the shadows, not to leave them until over two years later.

* * *

**That's it for today. I will try to fulfil my quota and update tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, so bear with me.**

**Any comment would be appreciated (even if you just wanted to point out what I wrote wrong, so I can correct it).**

**Smile, (it doesn't help anything, but makes so many other people angry, that it's worth it.)  
**

**me.**

***Notice the commas - there are none, so it's not 'pretty, young and morbid', it's 'pretty_young ... and morbid' :) just fyi.**


	2. Nervous

**John; 713 days after**

It's just my luck that when Sherlock gets back from the 'other side', I am at home. At home and almost leaving. The absurdity of that is probably the only thing that helps me to take it all calmly and not make a pitiful impression of Psycho the day I came back to them out of myself.

Even though I _do_ want to either hug him or punch him.

But the visits were stressful. I went back to London when I got a week off, because I had promised Mrs. Hudson I would. She cried and told me she understood that I can't really stay. She cried some more and thanked me for my letters I thanked her for hers (and the sweets she had sent, even though it hadn't been really good idea, because Psycho shouldn't really be allowed sweets, it makes him high). I visited Harry and she cried as well, because she was drunk and lonely and then I met Clara and she cried as well.

And then – at _that _was weird – I attended (it's the only word to use in this situation) lunch with Mycroft and he told me to stay in London, because that's what Sherlock would want and I told him to piss off, because that's what Sherlock would like even more.

I called dad, who wasn't getting any better, even though the doctors told him he was and he believed them, because he didn't know any better, and invited Lestrade for a drink.

Surprisingly that evening was the most stressful, because Sally and Anderson showed up as well and with friends and before we know, I had a huge party at Baker Street and I woke up the next day with Greg laying flat over me, snoring. Well – _that_ was actually pretty funny, because he had managed to steal my pillow and _hug_ it. I took a picture, of course. Blackmail material.

By the time I manage to somehow clean the place and throw hangover people I don't even know out, it's half past one in the evening and Greg is just stumbling out from my bedroom and disappearing into the shower with a mournful 'good morning' when he passes me.

I know I don't really have to pack, since I didn't take anything with me (only my gun) so I am not stressed. I have my flight back booked for 3pm, so I have about half an hour to leave. I hope that by that time Greg would be all right again and ready to leave. And if not, I can always give him my key.

I hear knocking and think it's someone from the party, claiming to have left something here and I quickly scan the living room for any mobile, keys or wallets to quicken it up. When I see nothing I shrug, thinking that maybe they just left it in the bathroom or my bedroom (Sherlock's bedroom is locked up, I would feel like trespassing, even though it's not like he would need it), and open the door.

But it's not some half-known almost-colleague who is standing there, looking lost, no. I know him very well and only the absent thought of 'ghosts don't really need to use door' stops me from slamming the door shut in his face.

**Sherlock; 713 days after**

I hesitate before knocking. What if John isn't home? It is past midday, after all and he could have gone out, maybe on one of his dates. It's Sunday so work is not very probably as I would know if there was any emergency. Well, maybe I could have called Mycroft before coming here – _home_, but I am tired and the flight was too long and I want nothing more than to curl on my couch and listen to John type his blog.

I catch silent voices from behind the door so John's home. _Not alone_, the small voice in my head tells me, but it doesn't matter. I probably would be able to make John throw her out if I want to. He always chose me over his dates, no reason to stop doing it now.

_Other than me not talking to him for over seven hundred days and making him believe I am dead_. But he will just punch me, than hug me and force me to eat something and then I can return to being all genius and consulting detective with my blogger save and close.

I sigh and raise my hand. No reason to be nervous, I try to calm myself. I can take any physical hurt John can send my way – _Just not, please not, please not no, no, don't send me away, no, just not send me away –_ and it's _John_, John is caring and kind and forward and strong. And he is my only friend.

I knock firmly and loud enough for him to hear, silently counting down those twelve seconds it takes to walk from living room to get the door. I stop at minus three when I realize he must have stalled for some reason. Talking to someone? No, I would have heard. Maybe he was on the phone and he needed to end the call, but then he would have_ talked_, so no. Not that either.

I shrug, knowing I will be able to deduce whatever it was he was doing by looking around the flat anyway and he opens the door.

My first thought is, that John looks tired. He stayed up late last night, maybe went to bed in the morning, but he doesn't smell like alcohol and he's still wearing his plain pajamas so he didn't take a shower, yet. In the background I can hear the shower running, so his date just woke up. That's good, he can send her away right the time she leaves the bathroom.

So he wasn't drinking last night, he _doesn't_ look hangover anyway. But I can smell the traces of alcohol from the flat so someone must have had something to drink. _Oh_, I think to myself. John is wearing his pj's so the one sleeping over is not a girlfriend, but a friend. Or his _sister_? That would explain the alcohol. No no, _concentrate_, I chastise myself. John is barefoot, he _always_ wears his socks when sleeping in pajamas. So he must have dressed in the morning. _After _he took the shower. He _does_ smell of shampoo. He probably didn't have anything other on hand and didn't want to wake his companion up by going into his bedroom. So either a date or really good friend. I don't really imagine him putting up with anyone on a daily basis, so date is it.

Well, he can still send her away. She would be hangover, however, so he would oppose to that. But I _can_ be persuading when I want to.

I finally look back at John – just _look_, instead of deducing him – and notice that he has his eyebrows raised. I must have looked weird just standing there and looking at him, but John is smart. He would know that I was deducing him, probably thinking that I tried to read all those three years just from the way he stood straight and relaxed, his hair a bit shorter than I remembered and new scar on his chin.

_When and where _did_ he get the scar, anyway?_

Too bad I didn't do that and only deduced that he was having a girlfriend over. I doubt that would impress him. I must be loosing my touch.

"John." I say and it feels weird to just say his name after all those days without my blogger. "John." I repeat his name, because I wanted to apologize, but I just can't. I have never said sorry _and_ meant it and I don't know how.

"Sherlock." he answers calmly with his eyebrows still raised and that's first what alarms me, because he shouldn't be calm. He should be angry or happy but not calm.

Why was he calm? _I _am the one who is always calm. He's _emotional_. I know I lost it when my breathing quickens up and my surroundings start swirling around. I am hyperventilating. I can't concentrate on one thought, millions of them running all over the others.

I take a deep breath and try not to stumble or faint or throw up or anything, because that would make John worried and I didn't want my blogger worried.

And before I know it, the words start spilling out of my mouth – at least slightly logical, I note – and I want, no _need_ to make John understand I _had_ to do it, it was necessary and I am alive and Moriarty is death and I didn't kill him but he's still dead and I didn't kill myself and I want to come back, come home, I want everything to return to _normal_, even though normal is boring, but I don't say that aloud.

John seems to understand at least partly and stands aside to let me in. I finally stumble when I walk inside, but manage to keep standing.

I have to close my eyes to stop myself from _deducing_ our flat, because I just want John to tell me it's alright, but he's silent.

"John." I speak up again, my eyes closed and I don't trust my memory to find the way towards my chair. What if there was something laying on the chair and I didn't see? I would have to stay standing until I open my eyes.

"Sherlock?" he asks, probably wanting to know what I wanted him to tell me. When I don't say anything he ruffles around his pocket – probably looking at his mobile to see the time. Why would he need to see what the time it is? Oh, right. The date. They may have some plans made.

John sighs before I can say anything else. "I do understand why you had to leeave and I am glad you are back, if that makes you feel better." he tells me calmly and I feel something akin to relief wash over me. _Oh it does. It makes me feel better, that's good. Perfect._

I nod, hoping he was actually looking at me and not somewhere else, and smile.

"John?" I ask suddenly, remembering I wanted something from him. I still don't want to open my eyes. I feel perfectly sleepy, even though I am still standing. If I fall asleep who knows what I will wake up to. Maybe this is only a dream and when I wake up John would be gone.

"Sherlock?" I can almost _feel_ his curious expression.

"Could you please, maybe send your date home today? _Please_?" I know I am begging him and that's not something I do often. So maybe, just maybe he would.

"_Date_?" John asks and the tone is so surprised I have to open my eyes and look at him – he's looking up at me, that's good – and he looks almost shocked. "You think – you -" he stops suddenly when laughter seize him. I watch him perplexed until he calms his breathing. _Ah, the shower has stopped as well, I will see who is he dating now._

"We are not dating, Sherlock." the thought makes him chuckle again. "We are _not_ dating." and I can't help but remember all those time he said it and it was about me and him – _us_.

"You _are_ dating." I tell him with a frown. Honestly, who does he think he is talking to? For one, they were sleeping in the same room – in the same bed, probably, because I don't think anyone would like to sleep on the floor – and John didn't sleep in his pajamas either, so it had to be about sex, so it had to be a date, right?

"Who's dating John?" I hear familiar voice and feel my eyes going wide in surprise. _Male_ voice. Is John dating some guy? That would explain why he wouldn't admit it, he was always concerned with these kind of prejudices. The worst is, however, that I don't even have to turn around to know that voice, but I still do it.

_Gregory Lestrade. Why would John even keep in touch with him, when Lestrade was just helping us get cases? _But it's true, because there the_ detective inspector_ stands, with nothing on but a towel around his waist.

"Obviously _you _are." John pipes up and I send him a _look_ that says _kindly shut up_ and he rolls his eyes.

"Do I?" Lestrade finds the situation just as funny as John did, so maybe they _are_ only .._friends_ on a .. sleepover.

"Why were you drinking anyway?" I demand to know from the DI, knowing he usually didn't enjoy this kind of activity.

"Party. Why are you here and alive, Sherlock?" he asks back and he has _no_ right to ask me what am I doing in my own flat and I tell him just so.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "It's your and _John's _flat. Well, now mostly John's. And he invited me over. Why are you alive?" he asks again and I can see he is angry, which is interesting, because he keeps on sending John sympathetic looks, as if I was _hurting_ my blogger, my _friend_ and he had to protect him. Protect _John_ from _me_. Such a laugh.

**John; 713 days after**

I watch those two idiots argue for a while, before deciding that if they _really_ intended to fight over _me_, I don't need to be present. In two steps I am by the table and tugging my gun to it's respectful place on my lower back and running to my room to dress into my jeans and t-shirt.

When I get back, silently slipping on my jacket, they are still shouting at each other about what's best for me and who is the bigger idiots. I guess both of them noticed my absence, but decided not to comment upon it, because Greg had been looking right at me and Sherlock – well, it's _Sherlock_, so of course he noticed.

I roll my eyes, deciding that _I _am the one who knows what's best for me and both of them are equally idiotic.

"I will leave you two to it, boys. Don't destroy the flat and if I catch you two still _here _and arguing when I get back, I will kill you both." only Greg noticed the humorous side of the promise, mostly because Sherlock didn't know where I was going. Serves him right, idiot. Searching my keys I throw them to Greg with a quick instruction:

"Do lock up after yourself Greg, please. If Sherlock's not home." I add as an afterthought. "Leave the keys with Mrs. Hudson."

"Where are you going, John?" Sherlock asks and turns at me, probably scanning me to _deduce_ it. Well, he will just know that I am taking my gun, wallet and a phone. _His_ phone, _his pink _phone, but he doesn't know it, since he was talking with his eyes closed, only God knows why, when I had it out.

"What _right_ do you have to ask _that_ question?" Greg immediately attacks and I notice Sherlock wincing slightly and the DI sends me a wink. He probably knows I wouldn't want to answer that right now. I quickly send him a smile and walk out of the door. Silently closing it behind me I realize, that this madness is really too much for me to handle alone.

_Eyes would be happy to have me back and willing to get drunk_. I think to myself and even before I manage to find a taxi, I feel the tears streaming down my face.

_Well, at least I didn't break down in front of Sherlock and Greg. Even though Greg saw me worse, I still don't want to give him a reason to punch Sherlock_. I smile at the thought, because that's something the _old_ John would've thought, would have done, protecting his best friend.

And now my best friend is back and I don't know if I am glad or not. He _should_ be dead. I cried for him, we all did, so then, at least, he should have enough decency not to come back from death.

Thanks God I will have three months to think this trough.


	3. Sulky

**Sherlock; 714 days after**

It took me almost five hours to make Lestrade leave, which is unacceptable. Why did he insist on saying all those 'if your hurt him, I will hurt you' things is beyond me. I would never hurt my blogger, if there is any other way.

However, when choosing between hurting him and getting him killed..

I trail off with a sigh, slumping into my chair. It's been too long since I could just sit back and relax. I would try to sleep, but I want to talk to John before I do.

Where did he go anyway? It had to be important, he wouldn't just leave if it wasn't. And he checked the time. That left the possibility of a date – which I quickly dismiss as John haven't payed much attention to his appearance before he felt – or important meeting. However, he didn't take any papers or his laptop, so that wasn't probable either. That leave some kind of transport or social gathering. Social gathering is not possible, I know John and he would have dressed up for such an occasion. Travel is it.

I immediately reach for John's phone I keep in my pocket and search out the train schedule.

John likes to be on time. Perfectly sharp or five minutes early. Meaning that I needed train leaving twenty seven minutes after he left. There was only one that could meet the criteria and I can't imagine what would my loyal blogger need to do in Edinburgh.

I frown down at the phone. Plane? Did he really leave to catch a plane? He didn't have any suitcase. It doesn't make sense!

Just for the piece of my mind I search any flights leaving from the airport within the range of three hours since he left the flat.

Berlin is out, Prague is as well. I don't think John would just leave to play a tourist. Paris and Helsinki, Oslo, New York, Rio de Janeiro and -

My breath hitch when I suddenly put the pieces together. Short haircut, John hadn't had that short hair since I saw him for the first time. Short nails, but not too short to be bitten – kept clinically clean. His skin was darker, tanned. I thought it was a trick of light, but I was wrong. And he took his gun. And a plane, leaving at 3 pm straight to Karachi. And that's few thousands kilometers closer to Afghanistan, than I would like.

I flick the phone locked and throw it across the room.

It hits the wall and crashes into peaces and _darn it_, I just broke John's phone. I sigh again, a habit I seems to have picked up from my blogger and slump deeper into the furniture. I feel boneless.

So John has gone back to playing soldiers.

And didn't feel the need to tell me. How long is it since he got back to the army anyway? And what's worse, how long will it take for him to come home?

**John; 796 days after**

London again. I feel small smile tugging at my lips when I think about _coming_ _home_. I have never felt this way before, of course. But now..

Now Sherlock is back and maybe even home, or waltzing around London like a lunatic again. It feels weird to know this. As if the weight upon my chest left and I am suddenly able to stand straight again and look up to see the beauties of this city.

The cab that I flagged down is driving very, _very_ slowly, but he fortunately chose well-known routes to the Baker Street. I still haven't gotten over my rather rational distrust towards the cabbies.

This one _doesn't_ look like a mass murderer, but I am no Sherlock to be perfectly sure. The feel of my gun pressed to my back is reassuring.

_And to think I can thank _Mycroft_ for knowing how to pass the airport control with a gun.._ I snort at myself, obviously silent enough, because the driver doesn't take his eyes from the road. That _should_ be reassuring, shouldn't it..

Too bad the man is young and tense and concentrating on the road very hard. He looks as if any sudden noise would make him jump outta his skin.

Maybe he had been driving the hearse till now and any kind of contact from his client would be scary. It is, of course, almost impossible and unsound idea, but still amusing.

And it actually wasn't _Mycroft_ himself who taught me, but his personal assistant whose name is not Anthea, but I will still call her that, because I don't know any better. I could of course ask Sherlock for her true name now, but there is no reason.

The greeting of 'Hello, who are you today?' has stuck and while we are not really on the 'friends' basis, I know for sure we are past people-who-has-met already.

I watch as we turn around the corner of the Baker Street. _Finally_. I already went to see Harry and now the only thing left is to greet Mrs. Hudson, ignore Mycroft and I would be free to concentrate on Sherlock, the living-dead.

Well, if anyone was to become a zombie just to irritate the graving survivors, it would be Sherlock.

"Baker Street 221B, sir." the cabbie carefully stops on the side and finally looks up to give me a fleeting smile. Maybe he's glad I am not a corpse.

I suppress any inappropriate response, such as giggling, and pay him, even leaving rather large tip, because he was nice enough not to be a raging murderer.

_I am home_. I sigh happily and knock on the door, hoping that it will be Mrs. Hudson to open the door. I still don't know if I should hug Sherlock or punch him and it wouldn't do to assault him in the front door.

It _is_ Mrs. Hudson and I am immediately engulfed in a fierce hug.

"John!" if Mrs. Hudson weren't such a respectful dear lady, I would have thought she squealed, but because she is, I only let myself chuckle warmly and twirl her around.

"Mrs. Hudson! You look simply _ravishing_ today." I grin and peck her on her cheek, making her giggle as well.

"Oh John, if I were twenty again!" she comments with a good natured smile.

"How have you been, M'me?" I ask her with the best American accent I can pull off.

"Have been better, but do come in! Sherlock -" now she drops her voice into almost whisper, meaning that the mad detective is probably at home and aware, "I am _glad_ he's back, I am." She stresses with a sober expression and I can hear the _but_ all too clearly.

Seems like my dearest flatmate had been a handful.

"What has he done now?" I ask her calmly. I know it should be me taking care of his eccentricities and not the good Mrs. Hudson, but I can't really help him from Afghanistan, can I.

"_Nothing_. And that's what's worse." She looks at me as if trying to communicate something, but I don't get it. My ability of reading other people's expressions has gone rusty, because I don't really want to know the thoughts of soldiers I operate.

"What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I am not sure if he ever leaves the flat and he haven't played his violin.. His brother comes over at least ones a week, which is weird in itself, but doesn't stay long."

I raise my eyebrows. Mycroft? Visiting this often? I would have thought that listening to Sherlock's complaining once per month had been enough for him.

"I will see what's wrong." I promise with a smile, honestly hoping I would be able to.. well, _help_.

"Be that kind, doctor, please." She smiles as well and I remember all those letters we exchanged, swapping stories, sometimes sad, sometimes funny and sometimes just weird. She's the only one I bother to write at least once a week.

"Don't worry." I assure her and turn to run up the stairs, hesitating only in front of the flat door. I can't hear anything and that could mean everything from an experiment, trough sleeping up to being suffocated with a failed experiment holding a fluffy pink pillow.

While it would be funny to watch some weird kind of an octopus strangling Sherlock who is an octopus himself, with all his long legs and arms, with a hideously pink pillow, the thought makes my heart beat faster.

He can't die. Not again. That would hurt just a tiny bit too much for me to survive.

I take a deep breath, knowing that Mrs. Hudson is watching me, and let myself into _our_ flat.

First think I see is a cloud of smoke. Smoke? _Sherlock, you idiot_. It seems to come from the couch, as there is the smoke heaviest. It takes only few long strides to reach it and I peer over the back to see my flatmate, looking very out of it.

He doesn't look very well, either. His eyes are sunken and with dark circles underneath, his lips slightly parted giving him a look of someone being haunted by fevers. One of his hands is on his stomach and I frown upon noticing his fingers yellowed from nicotine. So he spent his days smoking. Very productive.

His other arm is hanging limply from the sofa, brushing against the carpet.

There is a cup of tea on the table, still full of tea, probably days old. Other than few fingerprints – which I bet aren't Sherlock's, but Mycroft's – is the table covered with dust. As is the rest of the flat.

I close my eyes for a breath, before walking around the couch and kneeling next to the consulting detective's head. I title my head closer and listen – his breath is fortunately stable and when I grab his wrist (too thin, in my personal opinion, I could probably circle both of his wrists with my thumb and index finger) I can feel strong and calm pulse.

Good. It means Sherlock is asleep and not comatose. Nothing I can do, right now, but he will get an earful the moment he wakes up.

Instead of getting overly worried over my friend, I should clean up a little, but when I take a look around, it seems like too much work to do so early after just coming back. Maybe it could wait few hours. I ponder upon the possibility of just curling down and sleeping, but..

I don't want to wake up to this. And to be honest, I don't want _Sherlock_ to wake up to this either.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I call down the stairs when I poke my head out of the flat. Less than a minute for her to come, that means she was actually paying attention for any kind of noise from our flat. She was worried.

"Is anything the matter, dear?"

"I am sorry, but could you please help me to clean up a bit? It would take much less time if I had help.." I try to plead her, even adopting a puppy eyes and she reluctantly agrees.

In the end, it takes us less than twenty minutes to put the flat back into habitable state and without waking Sherlock up. When Mrs. Hudson leaves, I can finally sit down and enjoy my well-earned rest. With tea. I watch the detective over my cup and play with the idea of searching his cigarettes and hiding them, but he _is_ a grown up man. And nothing would stop him from going and buying new ones when I leave.

Sherlock stirs, his hand twitching. He breaths in a huge amount of breath, before turning onto his side. His roll is, unfortunately, closely followed by free fall onto the floor and the waking process of one genial consulting detective is finished.

I watch him when he blinks and tries to see what's wrong, because something is different and when his eyes land on myself, I see them widen and I would bet my gun that if Sherlock wasn't on the floor already, he would fall down.

"Hello, Sherlock." I grin at him and raise my cup in a toast.

**Sherlock; 796 days after**

My sleepy brain is irritatingly slow on the uptake and completely unable to comprehend the facts, that a, I went to sleep in my flat filled with smoke and almost void of oxygen and woke up to it smelling like chemical cleaner and flowers, _flowers_, really; b, that my tea managed to heat itself up in the process; and finally c, that on the chair directly facing my couch sat one smiling ex-soldier, who just coincidentally is an ex-soldier no more, because he, for some reason unknown, decided to leave me for war.

"Hello." I manage to slow down the not-really-logical thoughts enough to answer. I simply _hate_ waking up all sleepy and groggy.

"If you slept more often, you wouldn't be nearly as groggy in the morning." John comments and calmly sips his tea. I don't need to be the only consulting detective to know that he is amused.

My sleepy brain finally decides to notice just what did John say and supply me with ideas like 'John can read minds? Where did he learn that? Did Mycroft teach him?'.

"Irrelevant." I simply state what would be my favorite word if I had any and crawl back up to the sofa, immediately assuming my 'thinking' position. That means laying down curled, with my knees under my chin and facing the back of the cough. And even though I am not really thinking, but more like -

"Stop sulking Sherlock."

"I am definitely _not_ sulking, Watson!" I bark out, irritated more so that I can feel warmth crawl into my cheeks. I am _not_ blushing. Or am I? I should hope not.

"Of course not." John chuckles and yawns and that's enough to turn around to face him, almost falling down again. Damn those post-sleep reflexes.

"You are _tired_." I observe with something like wonder. John simply looks up to give me a smile.

"Great deduction, you should be a _detective_." He comments with the quirked smirk of his that makes me _feel_, because he doesn't smile like that on anyone else. At least he hadn't.

"You think so?" I grin, playing along. I assume that makes him happy to interact with other people and maybe if I interact with him enough, he wouldn't feel the need to go back south.

"Yes. Now drink your tea." he _scowls_, why would he scowl at me? I obediently sit up and take a hold of my cup – which is _warm_, how come – oh. My brain finally seems to catch up when I sip the slightly sweet tea. John came and made me tea.

For some reason that makes me feel happy. John is taking care of me again.

"Yes, mother." I throw back at him, but don't argue, because the tea is pleasantly warm in my stomach.

"Someone need to take care of you, you know.." I catch him mumble and look up. He has soft expression on his face which I don't recognize, is it worry? Or _caring_? I shrug, deciding that if I wanted to puzzle this out, I would need some more sleep, some more tea – maybe even something to eat – and the help of some useful webs about emotions.

"That doesn't necessary mean you have to act like my mother." I reply sulkily, because while I _like_ John taking care of me – when it doesn't correspond with any case – I am a grown up and take care of myself.

John just sends me amused look before finishing his cup and standing up.

"You are already leaving?" I ask him and it's really pathetic, that I can't conceal the hint of panic from my voice. John stops in the middle of stretching his arms and raises his eyebrows at me, looking so terribly cute I want to take a picture and send it to Molly. Maybe she would fall in love with him and stop bothering _me_.

"I am _tired_, Sherlock as you already know, and since I am tired, I am going to bed. Goodnight." and off he goes, leaving me with my slowly cooling tea and lots and lots of unanswered questions.

And a headache.

And the tea is cold and I am cold and my head hurts and I really, really, _really _want to sleep. But I can't, because John is here, and he could just leave without even telling me – like he did the _last_ time.

Just like I did almost three years ago.

Be it about someone other than John, I would have to wonder if it's a payback, but it _is_ John. So it's just the way he survives.

I watch the clock tick.

It's almost two in the morning and I don't want to sleep, but I have to. So I silently creep up the stairs. John's door is slightly ajar and the window is open, even though it's probably too cold outside to do this. He has to be used to having it open from Afghanistan, even though I don't think it's very warm place in the night, either. The moonlight is freely flowing into the room, which is just the same as it always was. I was here, of course. Countless times before, in the three months John was south.

But John wasn't, not until present, and the room looks much friendlier with the sleeping figure underneath the blanket. John is sound asleep, no nightmare plaguing his mind tonight.

No reason for me to be here, I think when I climb next to him into the bed and settle down, careful not to wake him up.

But since when did that stop me from having my way?

I sigh contently when John actually moves back against me, closer to the warmth I radiate and that gives me enough _reason_ to slip beneath his cover and place my arm over his waist.

This way, I would immediately know if he tried to slip away.


	4. Sleepy

**John; 797 days after**

When I wake up, it's already half past nine of one _very_ weird day. Sherlock is still asleep and how do I know that? It's because that idiot somehow made his way into my bed and is now snoring softly with half of his gangly body over me.

I sigh heavily, because it's kind of difficult to breath when you have another seventy kilos on your chest. I _could_ wake him up or try to slip away, but he honestly seems to need the sleep, so I just settle back against his warmth, moving him just that bit so I can breath and so it's not _that_ embarrassing, and let my thoughts engulf my brain.

It's been three months since Sherlock came back to live. It wasn't very difficult to deduce he traveled a lot, he is slightly tanned, but more on the side of sun-burnt. He was in Rio, judging by one of the bus tickets he threw next to his skull. Mrs. Hudson threw them out, but I managed to sneak a peak.

Two of the tickets were from Mashhad and Dushanbe, which are towns far too close to the war zone for my liking. Was Sherlock really so close at that time? It was the spring of the second year – barely half a year ago and I can't really remember what I did.

How _did_ we spend our spring? By burying bodies into the thankfully less frozen ground? By trying to find some herbs to use into food and finding only poisonous flowers so early into the spring? By clearing mud instead of snow from the ripped bodies of far too young boys?

I sometimes wish I could remember every face belonging to the body I sewed, but I can't. Not even in my dreams and I don't even know the faces of boys I couldn't help. I don't know their names, but I know enough about their lives to know, that they were naïve and had a future.

I try to remember each of them, but I can only count and it's not such a large number, but still twelve kids too much. And I remember something about each of of them, I have carved them into my skin.

Some of them are too young to even have a girlfriend and know what to do with her. But still, they are given a gun and sent to kill or be killed. Or both.

I was that young when I first saw the bloody sunrise of an Afghanistan day, as well. And trough the first months I didn't fire one bullet. Because I didn't have a gun.

The memory makes me smirk, if a bit sadly. But those are good memories, they helped forming me and made me who I am now.

When I came, I was put into a four-member squad. That's nothing extraordinary, we are more like partizans in this part of war, but I was still surprised. I still had milk on my chin, still would try to hide behind my mum's skirts, were she alive.

My squad captain (I am not sure why, but I can't remember his rank) was a rough guy at the age of over forty and he once told me, that his daughters were already grown up and his wife married again and war was the only women still interested in him. He crouched in front of me, making me red, because I wasn't a kid – or I was, just didn't want to see it. And then he told me I am under strict orders not to carry a gun.

I told him I need to be able to protect myself and my comrades and he raised his brows, before replying that no, I don't need to. _They_ will be the ones firing and _I_ will be the one carrying needles and bandages.

He told me that kids shouldn't kill other kids.

The next month our mission was much more difficult and I was given my gun back. But I was still unable to pull the trigger, when I knew that on the other side people were just as scared and nervous as we were.

They shot one of my teammates and I crawled over to him to sew him up. It was a minor injury, but could easily became infected.

In the end he survived, but while I was trying to clean the dust from inside of his arm, I heard the bullet. Like in those action movies, when protagonist who shouldn't die, die and he can hear the bullet. I heard it and looked around. And what I saw was my captain being shot.

The bullet should've ended in my solar plexus, but instead nested itself right into captain's aorta. I couldn't help him and I remember crying for the first time since joining the squad.

I finished the injured guy, while holding onto captain's hand and trying not to let any of my tears fall into the guy's arm. We survived, but parted our ways.

The guy with the injury was shipped back home and we – the only two remaining – got another two guys to fill into. But they weren't part of the team, and me with the fourth never parted.

Until I went home.

We had nicknames for each other. He called me Schizophrenic and I called him Blond.

Until three years after the death of our captain, we kept on switching our other two teammates. Then Lizzard came. And after another two years we found an injured soldier who didn't want to go home and insisted on being alright.

We called him Bloody Knight and he stayed. With us and we were complete. Now Knight is back at home and Blond ended his travels the same way he would have much, much earlier, had I not survived those long years ago. Defeated by infection.

Two years before I left, we were sent onto a mission deep into the heart of our opposition. I don't remember much, being drugged by smoke and the smell of gun powder and death and blood.

We spent two weeks in the wilderness, with another commando. Their captain had fallen and so they sneaked their way to us, trying to look as if we weren't seven instead of four.

Two of them were Hound and Eyes. We quickly made friends and I got to know their medic, a petite guy we called Sárí. He is home now, as well.

Two weeks later their team – now something like a 'brother' commando of ours – got their last member and I immediately started liking him. Psycho. One of the children, but still so bright. He had something in him what made everyone wary or scared of him, but I liked him.

I still do.

He caught onto me the very first day he came, maybe because I gave him a hug and a smile and I thought that he is _alive_ and I won't let war dull him. I held him when he cried because of the things he saw. I wrestled him when he grabbed a knife and started waltzing towards another soldier in the camp with the happiest of his smiles put on. I steadied his hands when he first shot an enemy.

Because I wanted to save him just like captain had saved me, hopefully not giving up my live in the process.

And maybe I did, because he's still alive and in France right now, because teams have to have their holidays synchronized and he wanted to threw an paper plane down from the Eiffel Tower. I am not sure if that's allowed or even possible, but I trust he will find a way.

Sherlock mumbles something in his sleep and that's enough to throw me outta the memory line back to the presence. I smile down at the mop of dark curls on my chest, thinking that Sherlock saved me and so if there is any way to save him back, I will do it.

There is not much what I wouldn't do for him.

**Sherlock; 797 days after**

I can almost _hear_ the gears turning in John's head. His heartbeat is slightly rugged and when I peak up at him, I see his pupils unfocused and dilated.

It's not really difficult to deduce that he is thinking about the war – there is nothing else (maybe _me_) that can give him such a somber expression.

But the close proximity and the _safety_ and his heartbeat, it's all so soothing I soon drift back to sleep once again.

When I wake up for the second time, John's heart is calm and I wonder if he's asleep. I doubt it. He is far to calm to be sleeping, his hands are steady and his breath far to even. He is relaxed, yes, but not asleep.

"Morning, Dr. Watson." I mumble into his chest and his whole body vibrates with his laughter.

"Morning, Mr. Mad Detective." his reply is amused. "Now that you are back in the world of the living, could you please stop squashing my chest?"

I snort, but obediently roll of him, turning so that I can look at his face. His eyes are closed and he is smiling. That is a good sign, isn't it?

"_Thank_ you." he breaths out and stretches his arms and back, arching from the bed. "You are heavier then I would think possible." he informs me and sits up, obviously intending to get up now that I don't use him as my pillow anymore. I follow his example, even though I don't really want to get up yet, but I am still not sure when is he leaving, so I just have to spend every minute with him, right?

"I am no heavier than you are, John." I point out and absently run my hand trough my hair. I am sweaty, so shower is in order.

"But I don't really spend my nights laying on _myself_, so I wouldn't know, would I.." he mumbles and I can't help but roll my eyes, because John can really say stupid things.

"Of course not, that's anatomically impossible."

"So is living with you." he retorts without any actual bite, so I let it be. I watch John find a clean t-shirt and jeans, thinking with distaste that he should really try to dress more smartly, but before I can inform him of my genial observation, he tugs the top of his pajamas over his head and I notice ink on his back.

I shuffle closer to the edge of John's bed to take a closer look – has he really gotten a tattoo? But the ink doesn't curl into any intricate patterns, no. What is on John's back are small lines, only three centimeters long, right over his spine. One beneath other, beneath other.

I count fourteen of them.

"It's a _memento_." John throws a smile at me over his shoulder, before forcefully covering the lines with his (ugly) beige button-up. I am – once again – confronted with the thought of John learning how to read minds, which is of course ridiculous. But so is the idea of him learning how to read me.

"Memento of what?" I ask him and trail my finger over his spine, as if trying to _see_ the lines with my touch.

"Of those who died even though I tried my best to save them." his voice is barely a whisper and my finger stop it's track. I look up at him, he is half-way turned back to me, but his eyes are unfocused.

"Two of them were blue, why?"

"Because those two were people I knew.." he trails of, looking lost and I understand. He lost two comrades and wanted to have something to remember them.

"Can I see?" I ask him, trying to make my voice gentle and failing epically. But John – my good, understanding John – doesn't mind and nods. I tug his shirt up, not bothering with unbuttoning it, or taking it off. When I look closer, I see smaller, almost tiny, pictures next to the lines. Symbols or letters.

The first line is blue and I rest my finger atop it, noticing that there is no symbol accompanying it.

"_Blond_." John informs me somehow calmly and I flick my eyes up at the back of his head.

"Don't be stupid John, it's _blue_." I say, noticing that his back becomes stiff and shaking and it takes me few seconds to realize he's trying to stifle his laugh. What is so funny in getting a colour wrong I do not know.

"I know, Sherlock. 'Blond' is a nickname of my comrade." he explains and I suddenly understand why he found my comment so funny.

"He is the first who died?" I ask curiously, because it doesn't really seem so probable that the first one to die beneath John's hands would be a comrade.

John sighs and I can even feel it beneath my fingers. "He died before I came back, he was my teammate of over five years from the first time I were there."

"He died after you left and because you didn't leave an address – your departure had to be rather hasty, because of you injuries – you were informed only when you came back." John nods, letting me know I was right.

"Why the symbols?" I continue with my interrogation, even though I suspect the answer.

"Because I want to remember each one of them." John's tone is firm and solemn and I know he will be able to do whatever is it he wants to. Just like always. I quickly scan the symbols, not seeing any particularly interesting, other than -

"Why the kiss?"

"Oh surely you can deduce that." my blogger laughs and takes a step away from me, tugging his shirt back into the place.

"Do enlighten me."

"He told me he knew he will die and asked me to give his message to his comrade. _That_ was the message."

I don't say anything, because there is nothing to be said. John puts on his trousers and when he exits the room, I trail behind him like a lost puppy.

"I will make a breakfast, could you please do something for me in the meantime?" John turns back at me without a smile and with such a serious expression I can't really say 'no'.

"Go down to visit Mrs. Hudson so that she knows you are still alive."

**John; 797 days after**

It's surprising just how obedient Sherlock is, and were he not so sleepy looking, I would think he had some experiment ready for me. I shrug, thinking that every experiment of his is probably safer than dancing waltz in the bomb rain and Psycho did just that. And of _course_ I was the lucky one to accompany him.

I make the tea mostly by memory, thinking more about what the _hell_ should I do for breakfast, when all what's inside the fridge is something looking suspiciously like human brain in milk.

There is the possibility of going out to buy something, but I know should Sherlock come back and I wasn't here, he would go all _Sherlock _on me. That leaves asking Mrs. Hudson, but I don't want to bother her that much.

I smirk devilishly when other possibility appears and I take out the pink mobile phone, dialing the only number I remember for the sake of _never_ picking it up when it appears on my screen.

"Yes doctor Watson?" he picks up almost immediately and for some reason that really makes me surprised. Does he have a habit of picking up numbers of dead tourists? Of course he _did_ know it was me, because anyone else who would have some interest of using this phone is Sherlock, and I doubt Sherlock would call.

"Hello Mycroft." I greet, not for the sake of greeting but for the sake of showing what good manners are. "Can you please do me a little favour?"

"Of course doctor, and what would it be?"

"As you surely know, I am back to London and trying to make some breakfast. The only thing present in our flat, however, is something inedible. Would you mind picking up something to eat and coming over?" because that's the only way how to make Mycroft do it, without having to owe him.

"Of course doctor!" he sounds too happy for my liking, but it would have to do. "I will be there in ten minutes." Meaning he was already on the way here.

"I would also like to have a word with you, if you would." I smile into the phone, feeling more and more evil by every passing moment.

"If is it about Sherlock and his way of living while you were in war, I assure you I tried my best."

"It was and thank you." I hang up, before Mycroft can come out of his shock of being _thanked_ by me, when I usually gave him the vibe of not liking him. But I don't, because I could hear he was honest. He _did_ try his best and will probably again when I leave. I will just have to persuade Sherlock to let him.

**Sherlock; 797 days after**

Why should Mrs. Hudson think I am not alive is beyond me. But it's _John_, so instead of telling him just how ridiculous request that is – because a corpse in the process of decomposing would make an odor noticeable enough, that even our neighbors would smell it – because he would just give me that look, saying that I am _stupid_, I went down to knock onto her door. Yes, in those trousers I spent the last week in, and without shower.

Surprisingly she didn't even comment upon my state and _hugged_ me. Seriously, what's wrong with people today? First John letting me sleep on _top_ of him, without his usual complaint and then letting me discover his secret fetish with tattoos and then Mrs. Hudson _hugging _me.

I endured it, of course. In the end it didn't that long to explain that I really couldn't be dead, because they would notice, and surely my brother wouldn't visit my corpse.

Well – maybe he would. Mycroft is not well know for his intelligence, after all.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to be much too happy upon seeing me, because she shouldn't be, right? No one should be happy upon seeing _me_. Sans Lestrade, when he is facing difficult – for him – murder. What if they decided they _missed _me when I was gone? That was intolerable! What if next time I visit some crime scene Anderson or Donovan _smiles_ at me?

I halt in the middle of the stairs and consider the possibility. It's almost null, of course, but so was John not punching me the first opportunity he gets. And he hasn't done that, yet.

I shake my head to stop thinking about things _this_ creepy and climb the stairs.

John is in the kitchen, humming some song, that is not classical and neither musical, while pouring three cups of tea. _Three_? Was I supposed to invite Mrs. Hudson over? No, no, John would have told me, he knows I don't do etiquette. So if he doesn't intend of drinking two cups of tea, he had to invite someone.

Lestrade? I don't think John would do that, he knows we would just fight again.

Donovan? Anderson? Somehow I doubt that.

"Mycroft." John utters when he moves past me with two of the cups in his hands.

"_What_?" I can't help asking, because I still hope I heard wrong. I turn around to see him in the living room, setting those cups onto the table. One in front of John's chair and the second one in front of the sofa. Well, we will see how will my dearest brother manage to get his seat, when I lay down onto the couch.

I smirk and take the last cup – obviously intended for me – and walk to the room. But all my plans are ruined, because that devilish little blogger can read me. Or it would seem that way.

John is sitting on the sofa, leaving his chair free. John is giving up his chair to _Mycroft_? I can't have that! No one _but_ John is allowed to sit in the chair. Or maybe me, but that's not the point.

The evil doctor finally looks up at me and smirks – _smirks_. Because he knows. Knows that Mycroft _will_ get his chair in the end, and he doesn't even have to say a word.

I will _not_ give up _my_ chair to my brother. Not even if it costs me my live. I sulk to my place and slump down.

I sip my tea pointedly, when I notice John let his and Mycroft's cup untouched. How _polite_. The worst is, Mycroft _will_ notice. Maybe not appreciate, per se, but notice all the same.

I _notice_ facts. Mycfort manipulates facts. And I don't want him to manipulate _my_ facts or _John's_ facts, but he will.

And obviously, John notices _people_ and somehow always manages to manipulate them. It's endearing, really. But annoying.

I frown at the blogger, who is watching me – which is good – with a smug expression on his face – which is worse.

Oh – and here the rhinoceros comes! And can hear his inelegant stomping already. Yes, such a good idea to find a flat with _stairs_. I would have thought that was enough to stop my brother from coming, but he is obviously more dense than I thought.

* * *

**Review if you liked it ;) I would honestly appreciate a comment, because this style is new to me (I am used to writing stories that are mostly about dialogues, so..)**

**Smile, me.**


	5. Caught

**Thank you, DuShuZhi, you are the best ;)**

**Enjoy:**

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**John; 797 days after**

Mycroft doesn't bother with knocking which is nothing unusual. Sherlock doesn't bother with greeting him, which is normal as well.

"Hello Mycroft. How was your travel?" I ask him only with the _tiniest_ hint of sarcasm.

"It was well doctor, thank you." I know that the elder Holmes is just trying to tick Sherlock off, when he smiles and looks just so damn _glad_ that he is here. "Here is the breakfast you requested."

"Thank you." When I take a look at the bag he handed me, I can see it's a pie, looking suspiciously 'home-made'. I raise my eyebrow at the man, asking him to elaborate. That's the good thing in being on 'friendly' terms with Holmes, they can read you so well, you sometimes don't even have to talk.

"My cook made it this morning." he explains and lets me handle the breakfast, while sitting down onto my chair. Sherlock sends him an evil look, but doesn't comment. At least not until I am in the kitchen and out of an earshot. At least Sherlock thinks so.

I picked up few skills along my way back in war. Eavesdropping is one of them and stopping myself from feeling guilty because of it is another.

"I would ask you to kindly refrain from communicating with John this way." I hear Sherlock say calmly, but the strain is just beneath, like a steel.

"I am not sure I understand what you implied." Mycroft is speaking more loudly – probably aware of the fact that I can hear them both either way. The noise of fabric shuffling against fabric indicates, that one of them leaned forward – Sherlock, I would guess. I can almost see him, trying to give his brother the most threatening glare he can.

But it will never work on Mycroft, who is the wizard of insults. They never seem to hit him.

"Use _words_ when communicating with John, Mycroft." Sherlock grits trough his teeth and I almost laugh. He sounds like a kid who doesn't want to share his toy.

I choose one of the least dull knife and cut the pie into pieces, putting it onto hopefully-clean-and-hygienic plate. I loudly close the cupboard to warn them that I am on my way back. It can save some _very_ awkward situations.

"Wasn't it you who said 'talking is boring', Sherlock?" Mycroft smiles and sends me a smirk when I come back to the room, enjoying that now Sherlock can't tell him anything more. Said detective slumps back into his chair looking like a puppet without it's strings and gives me a puppy look. He wants me to send Mycroft away and I can't do that.

"Talking is boring?" I repeat what the elder said with a smile and lay the plate down onto the table. I make myself comfortable on the sofa, watching the glares Sherlock sends his brother and smiles he gets in return.

That's much more entertaining than any tv show I ever watched.

"Mostly, yes." Sherlock looks at me briefly.

After that, he ceased to say even one word until after Mycroft left, in surprisingly good mood.

I returned to the living room after seeing the elder Holmes out, to see that Sherlock is laying on the sofa with his fingers beneath his chin. That means he is either thinking, or visiting his 'mind palace'. I have the weird feeling that he is trying to 'delete' Mycroft.

I resist the urge to laugh and nudge his ankle. He immediately jerks 'awake' and moves to a sitting position, his eyes never leaving mine – he is trying to _deduce_ me again, why he still bothers is beyond me. Doesn't he already know everything about me?

"Could you show me how to do that?" I ask him, trying to stop him from staring.

"Of course I can _try_."

I grin, because that's so like him to have a scathing remark. I know I will be unable to create my own 'mind palace', because after five minutes of not managing, Sherlock will yell at me for being stupid and will never tell me another instruction ever.

"You can finally eat something in the process, now that your brother is gone." I nod my head towards his untouched pie.

What is surprising, however, is that he actually picks it up and eats it. It has to be some record or something, because he manages to eat it in less than twenty second.

Well – he probably _had_ to be hungry.

"Now, John, sit or lay down so that you are comfortable and close your eyes." I sit down into my chair, just as I always sit and Sherlock rolls his eyes. He probably doesn't think I can be comfortable enough like this. Well, I am.

When I close my eyes the detective continues on with his instruction, hint of impatience already showing in his voice.

"Now choose one place where you feel at home, it can be real or it can be though up." I title my head to think about it, but there is only one place – sans Baker Street – that I feel good at and that is-

"No Afghanistan, John."

"Why not? I feel _alive _there!" I object immediately, because there is probably none other place for me.

"No you don't. Now choose different one." he orders impatiently and I roll my eyes, without opening them. There are skills dealing with Sherlock taught me.

"I don't have different on." I answer firmly.

"What about home? You always felt 'alive' here!" I can hear Sherlock moving closer, as if trying to deduce my answer by looking at me – and I don't have to have my eyes open to know he is trying to bore holes into my head. Again.

"Not anymore. The only place I feel at home is Afghanistan." Honestly, how _fucked up_ is that? My home is a war zone. But after Sherlock 'left' or died or whatever it was he had done, this place was no longer home. It was a memento.

"Afghanistan – well Afghanistan is not _home_. It's more like.. like a holiday destination for you!" Sherlock objects and he is almost right, because it would be, if I _believed_ that every time I come back to London Sherlock will be here and alive. But I don't. I _know_ he is alive and here, but sometimes I still don't believe it.

"Apart from the fact that I _live_ there." I mumble.

"Well, you shouldn't. Honestly, you should just stop being stubborn and come back home." he is growing exasperated and tiny bit frantic and it's almost fun, getting him riled up.

"I have a _reason_ there, Sherlock. I can't leave." _Not yet_, _at least_.

"I can't see why they just can't kill each other and stop bothering other people about it." the sentence is silent, but I can still catch it and my eyes flow open. I stare at Sherlock while he stares at me and I just fucking _hope_ he didn't just say what I thought he said.

"..Bit not good?" he asks tentatively and just than a hint of color appears on his cheeks. Can the great detective and sociopathic mastermind be embarrassed? But he is not the only one who can _deduce_ people and it's the right time to use his own weaponry against him.

"You know, I can read you. You are _not_ a sociopath." I say and I can see Sherlock doubts me, but says nothing, just letting me get on with it.

"You are just so fucking _scared _of emotions and too lazy to deal with them." I stand up from the chair and start pacing the room, still feeling his eyes on me. "So you _deleted_ them. Or something. Because the 'great Sherlock Holmes' can't be bothered with something so plebeian as _emotions_!"

I stop walking and look at him, his face unreadable.

"But – but something happened." I whisper, but I am sure he can hear me. The room has _very_ good acoustics. "For some reason you suddenly started caring what _I_ think of you, you didn't _like_ it when I was disappointed or angry with you."

I am still unsure why that would matter to him, but maybe it's because I started living with him and didn't leave as soon as I saw what he was up to in his free time. Or maybe because I was the one who usually complimented him and he -even though he didn't _know_ it- needed someone to appreciate him, so he opened his heart for me.

It doesn't really matter to know _why_, but he did.

"So you started using the phrase of yours – a bit not good – to stop me from being angry, because you know I think you are like a _child_ when you do, and no one can stay angry at a child." I catch a spark of something in Sherlock's eyes, which looks like shock, but if it is because he haven't thought about it like that, or he didn't want me to _know_, I am unsure.

"And that's the reason you are still using it, Sherlock. And no, it's not actually 'a bit not good', it's downright 'fucking wrong'. Deal with it." I almost want to stuck out my tongue at him, but that would kind of ruin the effect, won't it.

"What would you do if you knew how to access your Mind Palace?" Sherlock asks silently, wholly changing the topic and that's just another one of his tactics I can see trough, because it's something I had been doing before I left my primary school.

I roll my eyes. "Probably delete you, why?"

"Why would you delete me?" he looks positively baffled, which is almost adorable, not being it a grown up man.

"Why wouldn't I? Now finish your breakfast." He obediently picks up the last piece and bites it, then stuffs it all into his mouth.

"I would never delete you." he manages to say with his mouth full.

"Swallow before you speak, Sherlock. Honestly, what are you? Five? The only five years old consulting detective.." He hastily chews his food and swallows, before looking back up at me.

"I would never delete you. And technically I am the only consulting detective no matter the age." He rolls his eyes and I can't resist:

"If you don't stop rolling your eyes, they will once roll right out of your head."

Sherlock frowns, obviously trying to process whether is that information possible. "That's anatomically impossible, John. I am not sure who told you, but he's probably even largest idiot than Anderson."

I snort. "But you thought about it, didn't you."

Sherlock glares at me, when he realizes that I actually said it just to spite him. "Why would you delete me? I thought you liked me?"

"Why would you think I liked you?" I grin and move to sit back down into my chair, this time making myself comfortable with my legs hanging over one of the arms and head cushioned on the other. I swing my legs and close my eyes, enjoying the familiar sensation of bantering with my flatmate.

"Well you still live with me!"

"No I don't, I live in Afghanistan." I chuckle.

"But you lived with me! And followed me to cases and were said when you thought I died." he counts his points and I can imagine him counting it on his fingers like the overgrown child he is.

"Of course, we are a couple, aren't we." I silently shake with laughter.

"Are we?" Sherlock asks and the frown is easily noticeable in his voice.

"Well Irene Adler believed it and you were the one who said she's clever." I point out with my eyes still closed. It's nice to relax, without always being alert for any signs of an ambush.

"Yes, I am aware. Do you know she is alive?" he asks and I nod, even though it's difficult while having my head hanging upside down. I am turning into a child myself, God help me.

"Mycroft told me." I say before he has to think about it. It's nice of me, isn't it? I am saving him his brain.

"Well shouldn't you be nice to me, if we are a couple?"

"I am, I feed you, let you sleep on me and save your live. Shouldn't you be nice to me as well?" I retort, greatly enjoying myself.

"No." Sherlock pouts and I can help but burst into laughter, the detective hesitantly joining me as well.

**Sherlock; 843 days after**

I promised John I would take care of myself or let Mycroft do it. Because I don't really want the great lump any close to me, I had to be careful to eat, sleep and drink and it was far more difficult than I thought it would.

He sent a letter to Mrs. Hudson that he will be coming to London this Tuesday. It's Thursday already and he's not here.

I sigh and swallow my pizza with disgust – it slows down my mind! I know he would have gone to visit Harriet and maybe even his father, but why is he not here, yet?

I am sure nothing happened to him, Mycroft or Lestrade would have called me, but I still can't help but feel – _feel_ – worried.

I drift of to sleep, hoping for some peace.

When I wake up, it's to silent noise of footsteps and that can only mean that John is home. I smile and stand up to stretch.

Not twenty seconds later John comes down and pokes his head trough the doorway, surprisingly happy smile on his face.

"Hello, awake already?" he grins.

"Obviously." I remark, but it lacks the usual bite. "You arrived late." I tell him, even though it's _obvious_ and he already has to know.

"I had to wait for someone to arrive as well.." he informs me with a hesitation and that's so unlike him, that I can't help but stare. "Uh..yeah.. I will have someone staying with me this visit, is that alright with you?"

A _visit_? Obviously a comrade, but why would he drag him to London?

"I already told them not to bother you and try to stay upstairs or out, so.." John is fidgeting, obviously thinking I would tell him to take his friend – or friends, if I caught it right – and send them away.

"Doesn't matter." I assure him. It really doesn't, if they stay away from me, we will all be happy. I just hope they won't take my blogger with them. That would be highly unpleasant.

"Thank you." he gives me another smile – and that's good, because he is obviously pleased with me – and disappear upstairs. I catch muffled voice and the sound of laughter – they are cheery lot, aren't they.

I sulk back to my chair and slump down, occasionally sipping my cold coffee. Caffeine helps me think, but right now I would gladly stop thinking.

When John appears in the room again, it's after seventeen minutes and over thirty seconds and he looks remarkably relaxed. The presence of his comrades helps him relax, I observe, probably because he knows they would have his back if he were to get into dangerous situation. But so would I, right?

"I will be going out to shop, did you need anything?" John asks me and I can't help but wonder why is he leaving his comrades here and going alone.

"No." I would use some cigarettes, but John would never buy them for me.

"Alright. If you remember something, just write me a text." A _text_? But his phone I destroyed and he haven't told me his new number.

"I don't have your number." I point out truthfully and John stops in the doorway. He smiles over his shoulder – he is smiling a lot this visit – and fishes out a pink phone to show me.

"My own seemed to disappear magically.. While Mycroft told me it was him who took it, I now honestly doubt it."

And off he goes, putting the phone back into his pocket. It seems that while I took something of John's not to forget, he stole my own for the same reason. He could have gotten a new one, but he didn't. Instead he started using the one he insisted on hating, because it had once belonged to a dead woman.

Seems that while a lot of things changed, John is still my faithful blogger.

**John; 843 days after**

Sherlock seemed surprised when I showed him the phone. It's nice to know that I can still do something he doesn't predict. I would honestly like to know what have he done with my own phone, because he now uses a different one, but I am not sure he would tell me.

He seems rather reluctant to talk about those two years. Just as much as I am, to be honest.

The pink phone vibrates in my pocket and I pick it up – it's a message from number unknown, but the only one who would write to me is Sherlock. We don't really swap numbers in army, because we keep our phones turned off and in our packs in the camp all the time.

**I thought you detested that phone. -SH**

I grin and move my fingers over the display to write my reply. I grew unused to it, so it takes me twice the time it took me before I left to war.

**It's useful, I asked Mycroft's PA to 'upgrade' it a bit :) -JW**

She was surprisingly eager to do it, which made me think that all the geniuses like to show off, not just my detective. And it was worth the time spent in Mycroft's company, because now is the phone untraceable and _very_ useful, if I ever wanted to hack FBI.

**Emoticons don't suit you, please refrain from using them. Also, why would Mycroft's PA agree to help you? -SH**

**Because Anthea likes to show off – reminds me of one mad genius we all know and love. And I will use emoticons any time I like :P it's enough you made me write correctly. -JW**

It takes Sherlock only few seconds to reply, so I don't even bother putting the phone away while I zigzag trough the crowds.

**It is an advantage to be able to write correctly, John. Also her name is not Anthea, I thought you knew that. -SH**

**Of course I do. Now piss off :D -JW**

I sent him the last message just for the heck of it, and fully concentrate on searching the things I need to buy to be able to make dinner. I promised Eyes that I will cook spaghetti.

Before I finally make my way back to the flat, I count the exact amount of seventeen new messages, but carrying bags I have no way of reading them. I will just amuse myself with them later.

* * *

**Smile!**


	6. Intoxicated

**Apologies.**

* * *

_Before I finally make my way back to the flat, I count the exact amount of seventeen new messages, but carrying bags I have no way of reading them. I will just amuse myself with them later._

Sherlock is arguing with Eyes. Why would that green idiot even feel the need to come downstairs is beyond me, I _have_ warned both of them not to play word games with my flatmate.

"Schizo never told us his flatmate looks like a _girl_.." is the first sentence I catch when I walk into the house. By the way Eyes drawl, I can see that it's just one of many biting comments previously voiced.

Sherlock stays silent, either sulking and trying to look as composed as possible, or just flat out ignoring the soldier.

"What did I tell you about antagonizing my detective." I say with a grin when I step into kitchen. "C'mere you dunce." I nod at him.

Eyes send me a cheeky grin and skip closer to take my bags from me, putting them onto the floor, as it was the only place void of anything possibly contagious. I slid out of my coat and scarf and hang them over the chair.

"I wasn't _antagonizing_ him, per say." Eyes drawls and starts putting the groceries out.

"Of course not." I comment sarcastically and move to take out a knife to start cooking.

"Eyes was just telling him 'funny stories' about our days in Afghanistan." I turn around to see Psycho wearing my trousers, which are way too short for him and his military underwear top. He is leaning against the doorway with his usual psychotic grin.

"Came to give us a hand?" Eyes comments while he peals two of the onions I bought.

"Sure, I want to eat today, after all."

"Funny, Psycho." I comment and move over to let the younger walk into the kitchen.

"No, leave the knife!" Eyes yells and I quickly look up at them to see Psycho looking very eager, obviously preparing to cut the onions.

"I just wanted -" he tries to explain, but I cut him in the mid-sentence.

"You just wanted to play with sharp things."

"It's not even _sharp_, Schizo." he comments and tries to stress his point by waving with the tool around himself. "And I am perfectly able of cutting groceries."

"We never said you aren't, you are just way too dangerous to be allowed to try." Eyes shoots back at him, his grin growing wider and wider.

"What?" Psycho exclaims with fake insulted expression and I look back down at my tomatoes. Eyes absently rubs clean the cooker and puts on the pot with water. "You can't mean that!" Psycho says and in a burst of faked anger throws the knife dart-like towards the living room.

I absently listen to the swift and thud of the tool, because it's rather normal to see the young man throwing sharp things around. We had to learn to dodge these early on.

But – _Sherlock is not_.

The thought is sharp and cold enough to make me look up with panicked eyes. I dart from Psycho to Eyes, who looks just as wide-eyed as me, and back to Psycho.

"Sherlock..?" I call tentatively.

"Yes, John?" the response is immediate enough that it calms me. Looks like my room-mate is alive enough.

"Are you ok, Sherlock?" I ask just to be sure and Eyes starts couching to hide his snickers and Psycho just shrugs, before cutting deep into the onion.

"Obviously." the detective calls back calmly. That's good. I look back, trying to supervise my teammate, before he cuts his hand of.

"John?" I hear Sherlock calling back at me, when I turn to my work of stirring the sauce.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"However much I dislike stating the obvious, there seems to be a _knife_ in our wall." I snort at the matter-of-fact tone of his voice.

"I am aware, Sherlock. Does the knife bother you?" I call back.

"Not much, I just wanted to make sure you know where it is, if you needed it."

I laugh out loud, soon joined by both my comrades and the mad detective.

**Sherlock; 843 days after**

While I admit it's nice having my blogger back home, there is something bothering me. For first, I am still unsure as to how long is John going to stay; I feel as if sitting on an anthill, tense and nervous. Just waiting for him to come and tell me 'see you next holiday'.

And that is the second thing – what if not? What if John leaves and never comes back? He is going to war, after all. There are soldiers and guns and bombs in war.

Third thing bothering me are his friends. Yes, they _are_ funny and entertaining, but very demanding on time and attention.

And dangerous. The young man, whose nickname is obviously Psycho and rightly so, is a danger on two legs. He is now cutting the meat with quick and sure cuts. I have to admit that he is graceful with his weaponry of choice, but the first knife that actually left his hands is still stuck in the wall. Just beneath the right eye of my yellow smiley face.

Obviously, he was aiming for the eye. His aim is spectacular, all the way from kitchen and he still missed only by one centimeter.

For some reason both John and 'Eyes' are more than a bit suspicious of him, when he handles knives. Makes me think about their days spent in the wilderness.

'Eyes' is a bit tougher, while 'Psycho' is obviously under John's command and they probably form a team, 'Eyes' either has the same rank or higher than my blogger. They are friends, but not so close.

The fact that John invited 'Psycho' over is easily explained as a relaxing time spent with close friends. However, there has to be more complicated reason for him to invite the other. Both John and 'Psycho' seem to be very careful with him, always looking at him from corner of their eyes and watching his every step.

I have about five possibilities, but one is particularly probable; John told me that their teams are made of four people, split into two pairs. John's pair is 'Psycho', 'Psycho's' pair is John and third soldier from their team is 'Eyes'. So where is his comrade? His pair?

Either injured or dead.

Meaning this 'holiday' of theirs is a way of forgetting their pain.

I look back at the weird trio dancing around the kitchen and cooking. They look weirdly synchronized.

I sigh and roll over from the couch. My joints crack and move back to their respectful places.

"Going somewhere _dear_?" I look around to see who called me like this, because it's not John's voice and I seriously doubt the doctor would call me 'dear' anyway. It's not very difficult to deduce, because 'Psycho' is the only one who is looking at me, while John and 'Eyes' are staring at _him_, as if seeing him for the first time.

I don't see it important to answer his question and instead turn back to my window, gently tugging my violin beneath my chin.

Before I put the bow on it's strings, I choose a stream of numbers, of halves, quarters and three quarters, each one standing for a tone.

The first time John visited after mine coming back, he stayed five days. Two of them were spent here and I met him the last one. Next time was very similar, but he spent more time on Baker Street.

They arrived today, so I still have at least tree days of his stay.

And then I play, they eat and I sometimes catch John watching me with small smile playing around his mouth. That's good.

I am not hungry, but John still insist on me eating something, so I do. His comrades disappeared into John's bedroom to get dressed, because, as John informed me, they want to have a drink.

I "tug along", and it really doesn't surprise me when the destination ends up being John's favourite pub.

John and his 'friends' immediately sat onto high stools in front of the bar, but I slid into a boot, sipping _tea_, because alcohol dulls my senses and I want to observe the people around.

John would give me a look and tell me I am an idiot, because I should be having fun and not working, but I _enjoy_ observing people.

'Eyes' soon moves away from the other two and starts chatting up some girl on the bar. She doesn't mind – seems like the man won't be coming home with John tonight.

The only one remaining is 'Psycho', then, and I don't doubt he would soon find some 'attractive' woman to pay attention to as well.

The only thing is, he doesn't seem to wish to do so.

I watch John and 'Psycho' as they slide closer to each other, chatting animatedly. Sometimes I would catch John looking at me, probably trying to see if I was enjoying myself.

I wasn't. I wanted to go home.

Twenty minutes later and I seriously think about drinking something alcoholic – just an experiment, I want to see how it would affect me. John's little – taller, but still little – friend finishes his beer and they both stand up from their stools. They slide onto the chairs on the other side of the table I have been occupying.

"Everything alright?" 'Psycho' asks me – why should he be grinning at me is beyond me, because we _aren't _friends and I don't wish to change anything about that, anyway.

"Yes." I reply, even though it's a lie and John can see right trough it. He looks at me with a frown, trying to _read_ me and even though he told me he can do it, I seriously doubt he will be able to.

"Can I have a request, Sherlock?" John asks me, leaning onto his elbow and _yes_, _of course, whatever you want._

"Do go on, John." And thankfully they didn't comment onto the fact it almost _rhymed_, because I was almost anticipating it.

"Could you tell me something about the chick Eyes's talking to?"

I glance over my shoulder towards the pair, just barely resisting the urge to make my distaste be seen.

"She is journalist – boring journalist – once divorced, attending courses of self-defense because her best friend has once got hijacked, younger sibling and two cats. She likes _rock_ music." I can't really help but sneer at that. Such a dull woman.

"Nothing dangerous about her?" John asks again and he is smiling. Of course – John _cares_ about people.

"Other than the fact she enjoys spreading lies about celebrities.." I trail of and the doctor gives me an amused glance.

"Not every journalist is like that _and_ since when do you care about celebrities? You didn't even know who Connie Prince was!" that's not fair, I knew who the prime minister was. But maybe that's because Mycroft insisted on introducing us.

"Do cease your teasing John, I am not amused." I comment dryly and John laughs.

"Alright, we will leave you to your thoughts, your highness." John smirks and slid out of the chair, pulling his bouncing friend behind himself.

"Wanna get something to drink, Psycho?" I can still hear them when they leave, maybe because the music is slow now and I am concentrating on them trough the constant buzz of people.

"Nope. C'mon Shizo, let's _dance_."

I thought John would protest, but when they make they way trough the crowd, I am proved wrong once again. I shrug, because obviously the young soldier is difficult to predict, but still easier than John had been, and I still managed.

Or did I?

Wasn't it John who objected against being seen in a compromising situation with me, claiming 'I am not gay' every time? The same John who was now merrily twirling his taller friend around him to the beat of the really horrible music, laughing all the while?

I want to groan and hit my head against the table, because every time I am close to figuring Dr. Watson out, he does something absolutely unpredictable, that throws me out of the trail.

I don't groan and neither do I hit my head, because that would startle the peacefully drinking idiots all around. But I do order a beer and drink it.

Before I finish my second one, though, John is back next to me and pulling me up and out of the door and I am not sure why, because the whole world just doesn't make sense anymore.

I am drunk. I observe and giggle, because it's the first time I am drunk and it's so _weird_.

John isn't drunk, does that mean he drank less? Oh no – he is just used to it.

'Psycho' is not drunk either, but he _is_ a bit more giggly than usual and his cheeks are flushed. The young soldier makes his way towards the 'Eyes' guy, asking him a question and giving him a brief hug, before following after me and John.

John and myself.

Whatever.

I am unsure how we made our way back home, but I remember almost falling asleep on top of John, while he drugged me across some road.

I remember being deposited onto a bed and tucked in, before holding onto the doctor and refusing to let him leave.

The blackness that awaits me is surprisingly nice.

* * *

**R&R, please :)**

**Smile!**


	7. Comforting

**Sherlock; 901 days after**

Fifty five days since John left and he's back. It should make me feel happy, right? And it does – the problem is, he didn't write to let us know he will be coming.

That's the first.

He sent one letter trough those fifty five days and it was sent three days after his return to the camp. I counted it.

He never mentioned anything unusual, but hasn't written since then. There are two possibilities – he has either been sent onto a mission and just came back or injured.

I need more data to be sure which of them is right and seeing the soldier himself will certainly help.

For now it is to put on a kettle to prepare a tea and order a take out. Chinese, maybe.

Mycroft called me he will be sending Anthea to pick John up and take him home – they should be here in twenty minutes.

I take to kettle off, the tea would be already cold by the time John gets here.

In the end it take them thirty-seven minutes. Either they stopped to visit Mycroft, or were stopped by something unusual, like robbery. Which is ridiculous, because both John and Anthea are capable of taking care of themselves.

What is a scary thought, is those two fighting along side each other. I almost feel the need to pity anyone who would want to give them a hard time.

And why my brain insist on calling the woman Anthea?

John must have been rubbing off on me. Soon I will be wearing knitted jumpers and trying to be _helpful_ and _decent_. Dull.

I forgot about the tea. Too late now, I can already hear _them_ on the stairs. Multiple footsteps, one of them recognized as my brother, one is of course John and the silent steps would be 'Anthea', but who else? Two more footsteps.

I quickly put on the kettle and take five cups out of the cupboard. Yes, five. There is nothing that can put my brother into worse mood than being left out.

Two knocks on the door. Silence and three more. That's Lestrade. _Greg_. I am not sure why he feels the need to make his knocking so complicated – probably some compulsory behavior or his past as a part of the scouts or some other 'secret' group – but it's still much better than Mycroft, who wouldn't knock to save his figure.

"Come in Lestrade, John, Anthea.." I still haven't figured out the last person. I just hope it's not Anderson or Donovan.

"Sherlock." Lestrade is the first one who comes trough the door and nods at me instead of a greeting. Is he still angry with me? I really didn't want to loose the corpse. Or maybe it's because of the helicopter I stole. Or because I woke him at two in the morning to ask where is my phone, before I remembered it's in my other coat.

But that couldn't be it, could it? John never minded.

"Hello Sherlock." John greets me with a grin, but it looks tired. So injury it was. Or not? I don't see anything wrong on him, just dark circles beneath his eyes. And he looks thin. _Very_ thin. "You are making a _tea_? Are you expecting the Queen?" the soldier asks me and throws his jacket off. He is wearing a bright red jumper. God save me.

"I thought so – isn't my brother with you?" I decided not to carry on with my plan to piss Mycroft off in favor of reminding John and myself of the time we visited the Palace. John laughed which was even better than watching my brother stomp around like an angry rhinoceros.

"I think he is being confronted with the stairs." the soldier pointed up.

"You are mean, Dr. Watson." Is the ever-brilliant input of Mycroft's PA who isn't Anthea. Very smart. Not. I don't like her and it's _not_ because of the easy way she seems to smile at _my_ blogger. Well – I never quite liked sharing and _I_ am the only genius John is allowed to adore.

My doctor finally manages to leave the hall, void of his shoes and shall as well, and makes his way into his chair. He sits down comfortably, bringing his knees up to lean on them.

"So who else did you invite for the party tonight?" I ask him while sitting into my own chair – the one that is right across of his, so that I can have a clear view of him and ignore everyone else – with just the tiniest bit of sarcasm.

"Who did you recognize?" John asks and it reminds me of all those times he knew I _knew_ so he just decided not to try on his own and asked with a perfect trust I will tell him the truth.

"You." I start with the most obvious. I am slightly distracted by the way Anthea is moving around the kitchen, assisted by Lestrade, preparing the tea. Has she been here often? John _did _say something about her upgrading his phone. My phone. The dead tourist's phone. What_ever_.

"Lestrade – by the knocking. My brother, because no one can miss a rhinoceros on the stairs -" here John let out a surprised chuckle, "Some woman, who could obviously only be Anthea, because Mycroft goes nowhere without his baby sitter. And there is one more person, probably went to greet Mrs. Hudson, because even my brother is already here." I explain quickly, John's eyes are never leaving mine.

"Nope." he disagrees and my smile grows, because if he isn't lying he knows something I don't and while that should be irritating, it actually isn't, because it's _John_.

"No? Explain."

"I texted her to wait for a moment. And if you want to ask 'why', it's because I wanted to see if you would deduce who she is."

"And she did. Meaning she either knows me or knows _about_ me." I lean my head on top of my hand, gazing steadily on the doctor. "But I didn't recognize _her_ footsteps. And it can't be your girlfriend, because you wouldn't leave some _poor girl_ here all alone while you are in the war." I noticed my good doctor tensing. Traumatic experience? _Again_?

"So why is your sister here?" I finish with a broad grin. I won.

"Brilliant." John exclaims and claps his hand in a teasing manner. "And I am not sure. I think Mycroft saw it fit for her – with Detective Inspector himself – to be my escort home." he explains with a half-shrug. Aah – Mycroft. That explains about everything.

"That's only to be expected. Your departure from war was rather stressful after all." I point up what I deduced. Maybe he will tell me _why_ was that stressful.

John tenses again, looking ready to run if he sees any sign of immediate danger. "What did Mycroft tell you?" he whispers, never looking away.

"Nothing John. Do keep up." I roll my eyes, ignoring the way his expression changes from shocked to angry to understanding. He settles on 'bland' and it's not even half as nice as his usual list of emotions is.

Anthea waltzes into the living room with two cups balanced in her hands. The kitchen must have been _very_ crowded, considering the fact Mycroft already came and started arguing with John's sister about something.

They know each other? That could be dangerous. John told me she is older then him and if our older siblings come to some kind of understanding, we will never see a day of peace.

"John – your tea." the woman who isn't Anthea sings and makes herself comfortable on the arm of John's chair. She hands John his tea, sipping tryingly her own.

"Careful _Anthea_. It might be poisoned." I warn her trying to sound as serious as I could.

"Hardly, _Sherlock_, as I was the one who prepared it." she shoots back just as bitingly. Oh? So she is another part of John's fan-club who doesn't like me one bit.

"But _I _was the one who put on the water. And bought the tea."

"No. I changed the water and Mr. Holmes was the one who bought this tea."

John is smiling and watching us argue, while his sister argues with my brother and I suspect Lestrade has already left.

"_I_ am 'Mr. Holmes'."

"But _I_ am as well, or did you forget that, brother?" the rhinoceros appears again, followed into the room by small blond woman, who can only be John's sister. She is grinning broadly, but looks tired. Every few seconds she runs her hand trough her short hair, making it unruly and messy, her hands are shaking and she has already spilled part of her tea.

Nervous? Or cold-turkey?

"I would like to forget very much, Mycroft." I shoot back with a scowl. He really irritates me, all the more because he just calmly sits himself onto the couch. Harriet sits next to him and puts the tea onto the table.

She doesn't trust her own hands and tries very hard not to make it seen. Too bad for her me and my brother notice everything. And John with Anthea had to learn that as well by dealing with us.

"I can see _Sherlock_ is just as nice as you are, Johnny." Harriet is turned towards her brother, obviously happy to be able to finally talk to him. I noticed John came with Lestrade and Anthea, while she with my brother followed behind.

"And why is that woman sitting so close to you? You didn't tell me you have a girlfriend." For some reason this comment makes _everyone_ in the room uncomfortable, starting from John who chokes on his tea, to Anthea who drops her. My brother is frowning and _that's_ like a jackpot. Maybe I could urge John to date that woman and Mycroft will drop dead from a cardiac arrest.

Well. No. It's not a good idea. John and _her_ dating. Ew.

"No Harry, we aren't dating. And as for dating – how's Clara?" Ah – John is being _mean_. I love it when he is being mean. Not to me, of course.

"I haven't seen her since last Christmas." I never would have thought Harried could sound _timid_. "Well – I would _love _to stay longer, but I've gotta go." John's sister stands up, leaving her tea untouched, to leave.

"See you sometimes, Johnny." she pecks him on his cheek, giving hard stare to Anthea, who for some reason looks intimidated, before holding her hand for Mycroft to shake it.

Just like the gentleman he is, my brother sees it fit to stand up for the proccess. "It was very _informational_ talking to you, Mrs. Watson."

"Yeah well.. Eh.. Bye, Mr. Holmes." very eloquent.

"Mycroft can give you a ride." I stand up as well. I have a plan. "He should be going as well, the government doesn't wait." I add with a _very_ fake smile.

"Yes, of course. I shall see you again soon, Sherlock." Mycroft takes his umbrella – he has refused to leave it in the hall, instead taking it with himself – and Anthea stands up as well.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft makes some comical indication of a bow and waltz out of the room.

"Bye!" I call back after him, completely ignoring his PA, who is quickly hugging John, before following her boss.

And then they are _finally _away and I can concentrate on deducing John.

**John; 901 days after**

I _have_ been afraid of the time when they all leave me alone with only Sherlock, and obviously rightfully so – he is _staring_. I am not sure what he wants to see, but if he keeps looking like that at me, I will run.

"Is anything the matter, Sherlock?" I try to make him spill the beans, but I should know better, right? He just shakes his curly head and keeps staring.

It's _not_ their fault, truly. Greg did tell me he has to be at work today and _I_ was the one who sent my sister home. It's not that I don't like her – just every time she is in the same room like me, it feel too crowded. She has that little habit of talking just for the sake of talking.

As for Mycroft – I suspect he is a bit afraid of his own brother. Might have something to do with all the Moriarty thing. And I am not surprised the elder Holmes doesn't want to spend time with me – I don't want to see him either right now.

I thought we found some understanding, but he proved I was wrong.

"Stop trying to deduce me, Holmes." I finally snap, when I notice Sherlock even stopped blinking and his eyes are bit more red than I would like.

"What makes you think I am trying to deduce you?" is the ever-smart reply and I give him my answer in the way of rolling my eyes.

"Is there something you wanted to ask?"

"Yes. How long are you staying this time?" he asks and even _I_ can tell – no, even _Anderson_ would be able to tell that it's not what he wanted to know.

"About five minutes if you don't stop staring at me." Well – that's a lie. I don't care what he does, I don't want to leave – ever again. And seems like I don't have to, which is probably why is the detective staring at me.

He wants to know what happened – but damn me if I tell him that easily. I don't want to watch him trying to show emotions – concern, pity. I don't want that.

And I don't want to know whether he would hate his brother _less_ for this, or even more.

"Alright." Sherlock nods his head and moves his eyes down, now obviously trying to burn a hole into the cups on the table.

"I exited the army." I inform him calmly – more calmly than I am feeling.

Sherlock looks up and I think I see _hope_ in his eyes. It makes me feel warm, that he would still need me – but he survived for those two-and-something years without me, didn't he. To think he wants me to stay.. it's surprising and feels like a cold blow into my stomach, because it must be my own wistful thinking.

"Are you injured? That's why you didn't write?"

"I was on a mission." I admit and he has that 'I thought so' look on his face again.

"That was one possibility, why are you leaving the army, then?" he asks curiously, leaning closer. He still loves riddles just as much as he did before.

"I got injured." Maybe I should stop giving him one-sentence answers. But he is probably able to fill into the gaps anyway.

Sherlock leaps onto his legs and before I can blink, he is standing next to me, looking impatient. "Let me see." he barks his order, taking me unawares and I almost choke on _nothing_, because he _can't_ see. Just no.

"No Sherlock." he frowns, giving me the look that he thinks I am childish.

"Hurry up John, I don't have all day."

"Yes, you do. Now piss off."

"John-" Sherlock moves to kneel in front of my chair, looking up at me. It's weird being higher than him – I feel colour entering my face. Not the right time to feel embarrassed.

"No. Don't, Sherlock." I close my eyes, leaning back into the chair. I am so tired.

"Alright." Sherlock whispers, but I can't hear him moving. He has something more planned, because he just _can't_ give up, can he. "Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asks again, surprisingly gently and I am glad I have my eyes closed – I don't want to see his expression. I want to let myself belief he actually _cares_.

"Yes. I do. But I don't want you to know." I admit truthfully. It's way too large for me to hold it inside – it's trying to burn out of me, to lit on fire and turn me into an ash and everything I _love_ with me.

"Go on, tell me." Sherlock urges and I feel soft touch on my knee. The detective is offering me his comfort – making me believe he _is_ there and listening. That's what I tried to teach him, but thought he deleted it immediately after.

Next time, he will be giving me a blanket.

"I will delete it later, if you still wish me to. But I can _promise_, I will _never_ judge you." his tone is fierce and I can't help but trust him, he is the one who saved me – my life is his.

"Come closer." I still keep my eyes closed, tugging on his hand to make him crawl onto the chair next to me, and partly _over_ me, so that I can feel _save _and _alive_.

For past three weeks I spent in the hospital, I felt as if I wasn't even there. Just a piece of furniture, doctors came and left, talking to each other about me. They probably thought I didn't know what they talked about.

But I am a doctor as well.

_Severe shock and dehydration, malnutrition, badly healed cuts and burns over arms, legs and back. Lucophobia and irrational distrust towards unknown people. Insomnia, alternating with long periods of comatose state._

Sherlock makes himself comfortable – at least as much as he can while sitting with other grown man in one small armchair.

"I want you to promise that you will do _nothing_ about this situations and if I ask you, you will delete it completely and let it be."

"If I delete it, I won't remember I promised that. Therefore, I will continue asking until you tell me." he points up rather logically and I can imagine the pout he has on his face.

"I will remind you. Now, swear." I urge him, trying to make him see that it's _important_.

**Sherlock; 901 days after**

"Alright, John. I swear." I watch the doctor's face relax and he smiles, a small tired smile, but smile none the less.

"Good. Thank you." he breaths out, before falling silent for a moment. There are small wrinkles on his forehead – he is thinking about the best way how to start, which is ridiculous, because I don't care _how_ he starts. I just want him to start and get it off of his chest, so that he can be his cheerful self again, again going to the crime scenes with me and poking fun of Anderson.

"Before I start I want to tell you it's Mycroft's fault." I open my mouth to say something, but John's fingers on my lips stop me. So he _can_ read me. And predict me. I should do something unpredictable just to spite him – like jumping out of the window on a roller skates or kissing him or singing some rock song on the Trafalgar Square.

"Stay silent." John barks at me without even opening his eyes or removing his finger. I don't mind. Really.

"He wanted to help you because he _cares_ about you, even though he doesn't know how to show it." why is he trying to justify my brother? Even more when he said it's Mycroft's fault..

What could have my brother done? There are lots of possibilities, but only about fifteen fits. I should be able to eliminate them one by one with the data I have. Starting with-

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking, that disturbs me." he throws my worlds back at me with a grin and I smile at him over his finger, which is left unseen. I did that as well, if I remember correctly. The first day I came back, I talked to him with my eyes closed – it was making everything easier.

"Shutting up." I mumble obediently and just moves a bit, so that I can lean my head onto his shoulder to hear him better.

"You wanted me back in London, so Mycroft went and decided to get me back to London. He just didn't choose very sensible way of doing so."

"He let you get _inju_-" John moves his hand so that his whole palm is over my mouth, instead of only the finger to shut me up. It's not very easy to calm down if what John implies is true, but I try. I breath in and out, before jerkily nodding my head, letting the doctor know he can continue.

"No more interruption, please. It's not easy to talk about this." he admits and I squeeze his arm in reassurance. "Not even the military psychiatrist didn't manage to make me tell her anything. You should think about changing your career."

Joking, trying to make the situations calmer, lighting the mood, relieving the tension. It doesn't work.

"What." I comment dryly. "To be your psychiatrist? I don't think you would survive very long."

John chuckles, even though he has to _know_ I didn't mean it like a joke.

"You saved me once already, Sherlock. When I got shot. I wasn't very stable that time we met."

"I am aware. I even read your reports."

"And you think I don't know that? But like your brother said: She had it all wrong. And there was the thing she didn't know." Does he _have_ to talk about my brother? I now want to kill him even more than usual.

"What was it?" I can't help but ask, even though I don't want to know. Not really.

"She wrote I never once thought about ending it off." he says calmly and _how can he be calm?!_ If he had died.. If he had died.. I would have been dead as well.

"And did you?" Of course he did. I should have known. How come I didn't know?

The doctor laughs without any humour and doesn't answer.

"We were called on a mission. They didn't tell us it was a suicide mission, but it was. It was a mission for one person, but.. _Psycho_ insisted on coming as well, when they decided to send me. 'Because I am a doctor. Because I am one of the bests. And because it wouldn't be my first SS mission.' But this time, this first time they let him come with me and that wasn't part of the plan, was it.." John breaths in and out, calming himself.

I want to ask lots of questions, because I already know the answers. Or is it 'despite of the fact'? Doesn't matter. John doesn't want me talking, he needs me to listen.

"We got captured and spent forty seven days as a special guests of some underground group of partisans Not very civilized bunch, are they." he comments dryly.

"And then?" I can't keep my mouth shut anymore. There is an 'and then', but it's not 'they lived happily ever after', is it. It's not even funny.

"Then they came – ours, but not 'ours' at the same time. Mycroft's people, though he didn't want me to know. They kept tabs on me, saving me just before I would.. be finished. Broken and injured to be sent home for you to try and pick up the pieces."

There is it. End of the tale. But there is still one thing unsaid and I need John to say it, because he won't heel if he doesn't.

"But they came to late, because they didn't know about him being there."

John is shaking now, gripping the arm of the couch to steady himself. I offer him my palm and he takes it, trying to stop the tears that are in his eyes from flowing freely.

"Charlie Masen. He didn't survive. Died the night before they came. I couldn't protect him." John sobs and hides his face into my neck, shaking freely. Letting it out – that's good. It will help.

"You did your best." I assure him, because of course he did. That's who John is. Trying to save everyone, but every time so damn surprised when someone tries to do the same for him.

"But it wasn't enough. I promised I will save him. He was a child.."

"He loved you." and it makes sense, doesn't it. For someone to fall for John, _my_ John, even though he is oblivious.

John nods, not trusting his voice. He takes a breath and his shaking is subsiding, but I suspect it's just for a moment. He is almost hysterical and that comes in cycles.

"I loved him as well." he whispers and I smile. Always giving love to everyone around him. Even me.

"You did everything for him you could. I am sure he knows that. I am sure he died in piece – you were with him."

"Why would that help? Dying is not a good thing, no matter-"

"I did, remember? I asked you to watch before I jumped. I would do the same thing again. Even though it's selfish." I whisper, trying to move my arms around him to bring him closer and hold him save.

John shakes again – the second cycle. He will fall asleep again and wake up feeling numb. A bit surreal, meaning I have to do something to shock him tomorrow.

The man in my arms relaxes suddenly, falling asleep and I tug his phone out of his pockets, because the one I had been using is destroyed.

That's kind of funny – I stole it from him, but he got it from his sister who got it from her wife. I destroyed a phone of a woman I have never seen before in my life.

I text a quick message to Lestrade, asking to know if he has some murder for tomorrow and if he does he has to let us know. And if he doesn't than go and find some and let us know anyway.


	8. Home

**John; 1000 days after**

Life goes on.

We solve cases, I blog about it and Sherlock forgets his pants. Mycroft is just as irritating as usual and Anderson is still that stupid.

I still have nightmares and Sherlock somehow always finds his way into my bed and it actually helps me sleep better. I am not sure why would he do it, because he doesn't really sleep. He would just lay next to me and spam Lestrade with messages.

And how do I know it, if I sleep it trough? Because once, when we entered a crime scene and Sherlock went to dance trough the blood stains, Greg took me aside, looking _very_ embarrassed, claiming that 'he doesn't care what we do, but he doesn't want to hear about it'.

Of course I didn't know what he was talking about, before he showed me the message:

**02\17\02:17**

**from: Jennifer Wilson**

**subject: Good morning, Lestrade**

**John has cold hands. -SH**

I started laughing immediately and Greg let me scroll trough all the previous messages, all of them similar to each other, all of them short and absolutely useless.

"What are you thinking so hard about, John?" Sherlock comes from the kitchen with goggles over his eyes and long white coat covering his frame.

"You." I smirk back at him over my laptop, where I had my blog opened and game of cards over it. It actually helps me think when I occupy my hands with something as trivial as solitaire.

"Oh? Anything interesting?" he asks, looking like a child right before Christmas. I think he gets off on watching other people trying to think.

"Greg showed me some of the texts you sent him." Sherlock rolls his eyes, obviously not finding it amusing in the least bit. I do.

"_Greg_ did, hm?" he shuffles back into the kitchen and just about three seconds later I hear a small explosion. I look up from my cards again, watching the heavy clouds coming from the doorway.

"Still alive, Sherlock?" I call after him and he peaks at me from the doorway.

"Obviously." When he disappears again, I am left with my own thoughts to amuse me, which is not very amusing.

_Nightmares_.

They are difficult to deal with – even though Sherlock _is_ trying his hardest to help me – but not impossible. What is worse are those flashbacks I keep on having trough the day. In broad daylight, they keep appearing in my mind and I can't stop them.

The thoughts that I could have done something more to save him, to save myself.

_Bright light, unable to sleep for days, loud music and then silence, darkness and we try to hold each other, because there is nothing else around.. It's not long before they come and take one of us away. We are afraid to fall asleep, because we don't want to wake up to being alone and disoriented, or to being taken._

_But it's difficult to stay awake after long periods of stress._

_Sleep, calmness, dreams, dreams of hope and than darkness and noise and hands and than _pain_, questions I don't know the answers to or just don't want to answer. _Can't_ answer, I will never betray my friends._

"Are you still here?" Sherlock is watching me curiously from very close proximity. I must have dozed off, because I haven't noticed him leaving the kitchen.

"Obviously." I shoot back at him, but my heart is not in it, I feel shaken. Sherlock moves even closer and touches the corner of my mouth with his lips and I am not sure what he means by that, probably because he doesn't either.

"You should stop thinking about that, John." he whispers urgently.

"I know. But when I don't have anything else to think about.. I just.. can't help it.." I admit and my voice is barely above a whisper as well.

"Then think about this." Sherlock grins and brushes my forehead with his lips again, before giving me a bright smirk. I roll my eyes at him, before turning my attention to my laptop, typing:

_Sherlock seems to be loosing his sanity, if he ever had some._

"I am not amused, John." the detective informs me after reading it over my shoulders.

"Of course not, Sherlock. But _I_ am." I grin at him cheekily.

Sherlock moves away from me with a ridiculous pout on his face.

"Forget it." he mumbles. "We have a case. A _murder_!" it's not very difficult to make him happy, right? For Christmas I should just go and kill someone.

"Where and what is so interesting about it?" I close my laptop, putting it to sleep in the process, and stand up.

"High school of saint someone, second teacher just dropped dead!" he exclaims while flailing his arms around in excitement. "And the _best_ is! They had absolutely _no_ reason to!"

Did I mention the life goes on normally?

At least now Sherlock has his pants on.

* * *

**The end. Probably. :)  
**

**Smile and leave me a feedback, if you will,**

**me.**


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